Cold
by FieryRedHairedKitten
Summary: What happens when you've been put down, shunned, kicked, beaten, and violated your entire life? Then one day your salvation comes riding in on the lips of a fucked up angel? Harleen was just trying to live her life day to day.
1. Chapter 1

**Cold**

by: FieryRedHairedKitten

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters in this story. I simply own the imagination behind this revamp of a DC Comics story. All of the characters mentioned are from Batman a comic book published by DC comics. I do not own any of the place or the names in this story. Any description similarities between the descriptions of the characters and any real people are completely coincidental and unintentional, if such is the case then please be happy that you look like a comic book character. :)

**Chapter One: Freezing**

*Huff Huff*. Two very heavy breathes ambush my face – the smell of incredibly strong coffee and tobacco molest my nostrils. My wrists are being dug into by very thick and coarse rope; cutting deeper and deeper into my fair alabaster skin. I force my eyes open to which they are assaulted with the presence of a cloth, preventing me from seeing anything. The cloth smells of cat piss, cigarette smoke, and vomit. I writhe in the, what feels like, leather seat, away from the footsteps that are coming nearer to me. My naked ass has been forcefully plastered to the seat. My legs are bound with; I'm assuming duct tape, seeing as the pull of the adhesive. Scared shivers travel down my body and cause the leather to squeak against my bare back, revealing my anxiety.

An ice cold hand hesitantly violates my exposed chest. It pauses for a brief moment, causing a flicker of incredible hope to surge through me, "please," I softly beg. The hand disappears from my skin. I know what's going to happen. I hiss as a way to prepare myself, to no avail. The hand returned with a loud smack and the painfully surreal sting ignites across my left cheek. I let out a small, almost completely inaudible whimper. Both of his hands return to my delicate chest, savagely pulling at my breasts.

The sadistic abuse that is happening causes me to involuntarily shake. Freezing cold air hits my face and I'm immediately nauseous and vomiting. The disgusted grunts echo around the room I am being held in. That means at least two people are in this room with me. The menacing hands of the scum bag are back. He wipes at my skin, cleaning me. He runs a rough rag over all of my body. And then a wet rag hits my skin, the coldest water humanly possible for the middle of the summer, especially in Gotham City, runs down my body, causing me to silently cry out at the feeling of a thousand needles pricking my skin beneath the cloth.

"I'm getting real tired of hearing your pitiful whimpers." He said as the sound of duct tape being pulled from the roll sounds in my head. "Stupid little bitch." His hand slapped my mouth and the bitter and industrial taste of the tape infests my taste buds. Tears soak the cloth covering my face as the reality of my situation sets in. Deep and dark chuckles fill my ears as I feel the man's rough hands on me again. Anger surges through me; why would anyone do this to me? Why me? What have I done to deserve this? More tears break the barrier of my eyelids and rush down my face, the cloth being too damp to hold anymore.

His breathe appears on my neck, coming in sharp, shallow gasps. I feel his hands on my thighs and his hips in between my legs. His hands travel down my thighs and then back up them. The sound of a loosening belt resonates. The belt makes a forced screech of resistance against his belt loops. Old leather whines as his hand clutches the belt, the buckle shaking and fills the air with metallic anticipation.

"If you're going to make any noises, you might as well be screaming," excitement spewing from his voice. The swishing of wind away from my face causes me to tense in preparation. Leather is brought strongly down upon my thigh, instant pain causing a numbing sting through my leg. As badly as I wanted to scream and cry, I kept my mouth shut, firmly in a line that felt cold and uncharacteristically menacing. "Now that's a look I like to see on your face," he laughed mocking me.

A vibration starts deep in my lungs; it hits against my rib cage and I hear this terrifying growl of disgust and I realize it is coming from me. I allow it to seep through the room and continue its resonating from my throat. My small act of defiance is responded to by a hand across my face. The growl stops and I re-administer the ice to my features. I turn my head to the left and remain as stoic as possible.

A low chuckle penetrates my ear as the tobacco infected breathe hits the lobe. I twitch away from it only to be jerked back to him. I feel him take his rough jeans off, they scrape against my bare knees. Now his naked legs are pressed against mine. I cringe away from the foreign and unwelcomed ambush of skin. He laughs again, deep and throaty, he then pops his knuckles…

I awake hastily gasping for air; the flashback of a nightmare ringing fresh in my mind. My usual dream had invaded my almost pleasant slumber to send me rolling in a manic-depressive state of self loathing. I roll out of the ocean of black satin that caress my bare legs. Stumbling I make it to the ever-pleasant, dimly lit kitchen. The refrigerator refuses to allow my headache to subside by exploding light into my eyes. The always wonderful fire that smothers my mind slides down my throat, numbness isn't completely un-enjoyable. The little red lights on my microwave read 3:01 a.m., 'the witching hour,' how ironic. My thoughts drift back into the memories of my adolescence. The numbing took effect on my emotions but not my bumbling idiot of a mind. I have my first day as an intern at Arkham Asylum in four hours. That as a motivator I stumble back to bed, yet the images of that night continue, unwelcome, into my mind.


	2. Chapter 2: Ice

**Chapter Two: Ice**

A tall, grizzly man with an obnoxiously huge beer gut, long oily Kid Rock-esc hair, shoots into my mind first. The mere thought of him repulses me to my core while hatred and disgust. The image of me, the sixteen year old pops into my head; tall lean body, tight blue jeans, black Chuck Taylors, ripped up Slipknot T-shirt. My long blond hair is up in pigtails, my bangs in my face. The shit-hole of a place that the party was at that night appears next, the graffiti on the brick outside, sluts and drunken druggies liter the floor inside. The furniture is both out of date and unusable, with tatters and tears in all the fabric, the wood of the end tables is rotting and chipping away. Great place for a party.

My cousin, Pamela, I called her Pam, replaces the slum. Her long red curls hang down her back, her little, tight green dress that barely covered her ass. She was the one who talked me into going with her, because I didn't want her to go by herself and end up hurt, funny how things turned out. Pam had brought me to this party and then once we got there she took it upon herself to leave me alone with a bunch of strangers, just so she can get high, drunk, and fucked.

After about two hours of fighting idiot drunks who took it upon themselves to come onto me, I decided to leave. I hadn't cared that my house was six blocks away, or that it was 2 o'clock in the morning, or that I was alone. I trudged on. I took off down the hall way, pushing people out of my way, anger biting at my manners. My black combat boots assault the concrete sidewalk. I had walked for what seemed like forty minutes when the sound of shuffling feet and low voices bounced off of the walls. Low humanistic growls echoed around me. Searing pain took my breath away, and then my face had rushed to meet the concrete.

From there the memories come tenfold; the cold leather chair, the sounds of his knuckles, the smell of tobacco, the excruciating pain in my sacred area between my legs, the screaming, crying, yelling, begging. The memories last longer than I care to accept. Uncontrollable tears stream down my ashen face. I have made my way to the not-so-comforting comfort of my bed. I wrap my arms and legs around my pillow and sobs start racking my body.

My alarm clock wakes me from an empty and restless sleep, alerting me that it is seven o'clock, time for work. Tripping on my hangover all the way to the bathroom, I find my head in the toilet. After that lovely debacle I brush my teeth and then apply my makeup, to hide the night before. I don my black pencil skirt, white button-up, black heels, white lab coat and I pull my hair back into a bun. I pick my car keys up from the floor and head for the front door. My little black bug, although ancient, is quite durable. I slide in and my kitten purrs to life. The ride to Arkham serves as more time to my thoughts, which is dangerous. Thoughts of med school run through my head; I absentmindedly look at my name tag, 'Dr. Harleen Quinzel, PH.D.' Eight years of nothing but pain and stress for that title.

My first day as a psychology resident is bringing unwanted memories also. How very nostalgic I am today. Guy Kopski's face in my head almost makes me wreck. His sweet and handsome features invade my thoughts. I pull my car over and cry. Guy was my college boyfriend, the very typical physics major; tall, slinky, handsome with his beard and glasses, very nerdy and amazing. I loved him… and he loved me too. He was the epitome of brilliant; had developed a wonderful sports and mind enhancing energy drink he called, 'Think Drink'. He also had an ingenious thesis his graduating year called, 'Chaos Theory'. Everything was panning out for him and me the way it was supposed to.

My professor, Dr. Markus, was threatening to fail me, for no reason might I add, but he said he'd pass me if I designed and conducted an experiment. I decided on my theory, which basically stated that people will do just about anything for love. I used Guy to help prove this. My Experiment was: I was going to fabricate a lie – Dr. Markus tried to rape me and then pulled a gun on me when I tried to escape, I shot but didn't kill him and ran away—and I was going to see how Guy reacted to this lie.

That morning had started out bad. Guy wasn't acting like himself, stumbling around like he was drunk, dazed and confused. But I had decided to go on with the experiment as planned, silly me. I got to school and stayed a few hours in the library, working on my analysis paper for the whole thing, giving everything enough of a timeline to happen on realistically. After I calculated would be long enough, I packed my things and disheveled myself to look the part. I walked into the apartment slowly, horrified look on my face.

After I told the lie, Guy went crazy, cussing and screaming. He ran to our hall closet and got his baseball bat, and ran to the door. I blocked his way and he pushed me. I was knocked out by the end table's vicious corner. When I came to I rushed to find Guy. I ran to the Psychology building and in front of the building, rising on the sidewalk screaming and crying was guy. Two feet in front of him was a body that had been brutally beaten to death. The baseball bat Guy had was lying at his side, covered in blood.

Guy looked at me then, blood speckling his face, tears streaming down his face. He raised his shaking hands at me, and said, "I thought he was Markus, I only wanted to protect you." Sobs racked his body and he hung his head in shame. He looked at me again, except this time resolve washed his face. "Harlz, don't let them arrest me. I can't live the rest of my life in a jail cell, thinking about this constantly." Guy reached over to the dead man's body and pulled a 9mm out of his pants. He handed it to me and pleaded with me to end it.

Everything goes black and I find myself in my car again. My trembling hands fumble to turn the car keys and start the vehicle. Once on the path to Arkham Asylum, my head clears and I decide to remain numb for the remainder of the day, and preferably my life.


End file.
